


the only heaven i'll be sent to

by cakecakecake



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Body Worship, Catholic Iconography, Church Sex, Closet Sex, Crushes, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Experienced Byleth, F/M, Fingerfucking, First Time, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Library Sex, Literary References & Allusions, Making Out, Older Woman/Younger Man, One Shot Collection, Outdoor Sex, Self-Indulgent, Sexual Tension, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, Virgin Sylvain, idolatry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakecakecake/pseuds/cakecakecake
Summary: a collection of independent porny byleth stories for three houses.





	1. byleth/dimitri

His request was not inappropriate. (“Meet me in the library after dinner.”) 

An unusual time for studying, as students typically retire to their dormitories or romp about the town after mealtime -- but Dimitri has his advancement certification tomorrow, so it’s not a wonder that he’d ask for additional coaching to assure full marks. He has room for improvement in a few areas anyway, so Byleth agrees, unassuming. There’s a glimmer of something she doesn’t recognize in his eyes when he asks her, though, something she can’t recall having seen before, but she isn’t sure of what it is. She forgets about it, doesn’t think about it again for the rest of the day, until the creaking wooden doors whine open, and she is met with it again. 

“I was worried you would change your mind.”

It’s hard to tell in the shadows, but he doesn’t _look_ worried. Unless the curl of his lips is just a trick of the candlefire. He watches her almost expectantly as she strides further inside.

“Why would I change my mind?” she asks absently. He chortles. Eyes never leaving her face as he rises from his chair. She glances at the table, bare of any books or studying material -- he’s brought nothing with him. The gears in her mind are slowly clicking into place as he draws nearer to her, cornering her between dusted, forgotten history shelves. 

“Because,” he starts to tell her -- he’s speaking so softly she can hardly hear him, even this close. She’s never seen him this close. (She’s never seen anyone this close.) 

This close, she can see the speckles of grey in the glacial blue of his irises. The flickering candlelight seems to make them twinkle. He blinks his unfairly long lashes and Byleth is almost bewildered that stardust doesn’t fall from between them. He wets his mouth anxiously, pink tongue rolling over his lips. Byleth watches his throat bob as he swallows spit. If he’d meant to provide her with an explanation, he wouldn’t get the chance to -- his mouth is quickly claimed by something more expressive than speech.

Time seems to stutter to a stop. Dimitri goes near rigid, unmoving as Byleth awkwardly crushes her lips into his, clutching the front of his shirt. In just fifteen seconds’ time, she can feel thirty of his rapid heartbeats. A countdown -- twenty-six, twenty-seven -- twenty-eight, twenty-nine -- until he draws in a sharp breath through his nostrils and reaches to ball up a fist in her hair.

Byleth almost loses her balance -- would have if not for Dimitri’s grip on her waist. Blunt fingertips dig into her side as he clumsily deepens the kiss, parting his lips to urge her to explore. Timidly, Byleth opens her mouth, capturing his bottom lip in three, four kisses until he impatiently slips his tongue between her lips. Groaning, he sinks his hips into hers, pulling back to kiss her somewhere else. She gasps, both delighted and panicked, struck suddenly with the worry that someone could walk in. Eyes straining open, she scopes the hall to ensure their safety from lurkers in the shadows. Empty just as she entered, although the lack of prying eyes doesn’t bring her peace.

Then Dimitri slips his hand under the brush of her skirt, and the matter of whether or not they could be caught quickly becomes a distant thought. 

Byleth’s breath hitches. His hands are so cold, even just against the flimsy fabric of her underwear. Knots in her stomach coil and tighten as she feels heat blazing at her core, wet and pulsing. She hears Dimitri gulp. 

“You’re so _warm_,” he shudders. “I...I love it.”

“Dimitri,” she croaks out, desperately, “please, touch me.” 

He obliges immediately. The icy-cool touch of his index finger slips past the silken fabric of her panties. Dimitri shudders through a heavy exhale, his heart hammering against her chest as he presses up against her. The tip of his finger draws circles around her clit and Byleth swallows hard. The sensation makes her dizzy -- her hips jerk of their own accord.

“Do you like that, Professor?” he asks her, low and dusky, studying her blank expression. “I can’t tell from the look on your face…”

“I love it,” Byleth hears herself say, her throat running dry. It seems he believes her, if the return of his smile means anything. She claws at his shirtfront, breathing no less than an inch from his mouth. “Touch me more, please.” 

Brows furrowed, Dimitri watches her carefully as he slides a finger inside of her, hissing through a deep intake of breath. There’s a slick, sloppy sound as he draws it out, and then back in again, twice and three times over -- she’s dripping wet.

“All this, just from one touch?” he marvels at her, his tone dulcet and cinnamon-sweet. Byleth’s jaw drops with a whimpering moan, loud and audacious. She bucks her hips into his hand and Dimitri groans into her ear.

“Oh, mercy....the sound you make is intoxicating,” he grouses. “how do I draw it out from you again?”

“More,” is the only instruction she gives him. She’s soaked enough that he can likely plunge his whole hand inside of her, but only three fingers would enter her. Byleth practically sings his name, feeling as though her walls are melting around him. He groans into a vulgar laugh, breathing into her mouth hungrily before stealing another kiss. He bites on her bottom lip and she howls. Dimitri _loves_ that. He kisses her wildly, tongue swirling around her mouth messily as his composure comes crumbling down. 

“I would fuck you right here, if I could,” he grumbles against her mouth desperately. “You want me to, don’t you, Professor? I could fuck you breathless.” 

“Dimitri,” she whimpers his name, thrusting her hips forward. Her hands find his throat and she grasps him in a chokehold, gripping just tightly enough to make him chortle and gasp. His pulse is throbbing as hard as her clit. She thinks she’s going to burst. 

Dimitri slides his fingers out of her, locking eyes with her as he sucks her wetness off of them. Empty and aching, Byleth cries out as he almost drools on his own digits, humming through pleasant satisfaction. 

“Dimitri, don’t stop,” she pleads with him, trembling. “It aches so much, I might cry.”

He bats his heavy lashes, smirking just so. “Maybe I want you to cry.” 

A low, guttural noise not unlike that of a dog escapes Byleth’s dried-out throat as Dimitri drops down on his knees. The professor throws her head back against the shelving as the prince ducks his head under her skirt, sliding his hands up her thighs. His nails rake down her legs as he presses his tongue flat against her still-covered folds, tasting her through fabric. Byleth thrusts her cunt into his face, urging him to get on with it already with a merciless pull at his messy hair. Dimitri groans into her cunt, kissing her thighs before dragging down her underwear with his teeth. 

Byleth doesn’t cry when his tongue first strokes her naked clit, just clamps her lips between her teeth in a grimace. There’s an explosive sensation in the pit of her chest, like being struck with a blade -- she finds very fast that she likes it. The pressure is good. “Harder,” is her next instruction, and he obliges zealously. His fingers enter her again and she moans a licentious aah, aah -- he’s moving so quickly and giving it to her so hard, she closes her eyes and sees stars. She could almost rip his hair out from gripping it so tightly. She fucks his face, swinging one leg around his shoulder and marveling at how she’s still standing -- probably thanks to the way he’s got her hips in a death grip. She’ll have bruises, she’s sure, but the hurt is almost thrilling. She moans and whines, reveling in the way he digs his nails into her when she makes a loud enough noise. 

“Tell me you’re close,” he says from between her legs. “I want to drink your undoing.” 

Byleth doesn’t stop herself screaming. Dimitri drives his fingers so deep inside her, presses his tongue at just the right angle against her clit -- she is unmade in a manner of seconds. She writhes in his grasp, head pounding as climax thunders through her. She topples over, clutching his shoulders for balance as he sucks at her cunt, licking her clean. His name falls from her swollen lips over and over and he rises up to push her back against the bookcase again, kissing her feverishly. She can feel how hard his heart is pounding despite the little space between them. Byleth tangles her fingers in his sweaty hair and loses herself in his kiss. She lets her hand wander down to the swell in his pants and to her surprise, he bats it away. 

“Will you not let me pleasure you in return?” 

“Not tonight, Professor,” he tells her kindly, sounding now much more like the sweet student she knows. “My heart can only handle so much. Perhaps another time, if you would be so kind to grace me with your private company again.” 

The professor feels a rare smile curve at her lips. A nod is all she needs to say yes.


	2. byleth/ashe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay look,,,,,,,ashe is irresistibly adorable. he goes from "i need to protect him" to "i need to fuck him senseless" those freckles are unbelievable. he's so fucking cute. he's still a thief he stole my whole heart. do not arrest him. he caught ME slipping

“Reading in the dark is bad for your vision, you know.”

Ashe nearly catapults himself across the archway. Engrossed in the explicit detail of a hidden erotica from the no-longer-restricted section, he’d blacked out the world of the living around him, forgetting about the fact that the library is public domain and not his own sanctuary. Before he falls backward in his seat, he catches himself on the lip of the table, eyes snapping up to find his former --

“Professor!” he yelps like a frightened puppy, clutching his book to his chest. “How long have you been in here? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“I’m sorry, Ashe,” her voice is soft and apologetic, in perfect contrast to the lack of concern on her blank face. He’d never given much thought to how odd that actually was -- too young to have really noticed that it wasn’t quite normal, before, but now that’s he’s grown, he realizes it makes him a little nervous. “I was just patrolling. What are you doing here so late?”

“Oh, nothing, just -- “ he straightens up, gathering himself before taking a breath. “I was just reading. I’m sorry. I can go back to my room -- "

“I wasn’t implying you had to. It’s not like there are library rules anymore,” she tells him gently. There’s a tiny hint of a smile playing on her lips. “I just remember that this place used to spook you at night.” 

He swallows, the warmth in her tone setting his already anxious heart aflutter. He lowers his voice, inching a step closer to her. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do,” she nods. She doesn’t ask him to explain himself, but he feels compelled to do so all the same. He shuffles his feet, eyes downcast at the leather-bound book he’s holding. 

“I, um -- truthfully, I had an awful dream, and I just couldn’t get back to sleep. I came to pillage the shelves to see if a story could put me at ease.”

“Did it?”

“Not really,” he says hopelessly, an easy laugh on his breath. The former professor is smiling only just so, as though waiting for him to say something else. If he’s being honest with himself, he’d like nothing more than to talk with her well into the cryptic hours of the night. He’s certain her presence would be more than enough to quiet his troubles -- but he feels shy, much like a kid again. It doesn’t help that she’s even more beautiful than he remembers -- Ashe hardly feels fit to look her in the eyes. He’s taller than her now, but still somehow manages to be the one looking sheepishly up at her. “Um...if it’s not too much trouble, could I ask you to walk with me?”

“Still a little scared of the dark?” 

“Professor!” he balks at her, feeling his ears burning red. He hadn’t expected that. She giggles, soft and playful, and it strikes a chord within him -- he’s not sure he’s ever heard her laugh. 

“Please, it’s Byleth,” she corrects him, not unkindly, although her smile melts away. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t tease you.” 

“It’s alright, I don’t mind being teased a little.” He tells her, not thinking at all about the way he says it. She lowers her eyelids, narrowing her gaze at him in some foreign, alluring manner he’s only read about. 

“Is that so?” 

Ashe’s heart does a backflip. Words catch in his throat as she shakes her head again, and he’s graced with another one of her giggles, easy and soft. 

“Sorry, I’ve done it again. Shall we?” 

“Lead the way,” he manages, gesturing toward the archway. She moves along and he follows, keeping a close few steps behind her as they wander down the corridor. Candlelight glows around her figure, casting a halo around her tea-green hair. Like him, she’s lacking proper clothes at this time of night, dressed only in her knit top and leather shorts. Without the billow of the long-coat behind her, Ashe can see the flex of muscle in her thick thighs -- and how snugly the fabric hugs her ass. Sure, her chest had always drawn attention due to its size, but her _ass_ \-- she’s stacked even there. His ears are burning again. Had he been wearing blinders the whole time in school, or has she always looked like this? 

“What did you dream about?” she asks him suddenly, startling him from his thoughts. “If it’s alright that I ask.”

“Oh, um, of course,” He stutters, avoiding her piercing stare as they turn a sharp corner toward a downward flight of stairs. His feet fall heavy on the stone steps -- he watches their shadows flicker on the walls as they descend to the gardens. He draws in a deep breath before delving into it.

“It was Lonato.”

The professor follows him with doleful eyes, sympathetic. He skirts around a few sleeping courtyard cats and picks a bench behind a rosebush to rest on, and she follows suit. The candle dies out, unneeded and now forgotten at their feet. 

“I dreamt I saw him again,” Ashe struggles, clutching his knees. “Only he had no kind words for me. He said taking me in was his biggest regret...that he was ashamed of me.”

His voice is cracking and he hates himself for it, hates feeling so much like a child. His heart races, aching more with every beat as he tries to forget the picture painted in his nightmare. Byleth is silent as the night surrounding them, quiet and still, but her eyes never leave his face. She doesn’t even blink, she just listens intently. 

“I don’t really remember much more of it, but it was unpleasant enough to shake me,” he tries to smile through it, fighting off how pitiful he feels, but it seems she doesn’t think him to be. 

“I’m sorry, that must have been difficult. Even if it were only a dream,” she validates him, resting a hand on his knee. The way her words seem to lift the weight from his shoulders is nothing short of remarkable; he can’t help but smile back at her. 

“Thank you,” he feels his voice quiver. His hand twitches beneath hers and he hopes she doesn’t remove it -- to his delight, she clutches it tighter. “I know he would never have said such terrible things to me in life, but. There’s a part of me that worries I’ve disappointed him.”

“No,” she admonishes him. Her thigh presses against his and he feels his stomach turn -- she’s inching closer to him on the bench. She’s so _warm_. “He would be proud of the man you are, Ashe.”

She’s leaning in more closely, a mere hair's breadth away from his face. Her eyes seem to flicker from freckle to freckle, like she’s counting them. He wonders if they’re even still visible under the flush of crimson in his cheeks. 

“You really believe that, Professor?” He almost gargles on his words. 

“Byleth,” she corrects him, tenderly. “And yes, I do. You’re extraordinary, Ashe. Any father would be proud.”

Completely tongue-tied, Ashe trembles, entranced with the way she’s staring into him with those eyes. Her gaze sparkles under the stars in a supernatural sort of way, not unlike something from a fairy-tale -- the light of the moon makes her glow like a saint. She is so, so beautiful, it almost pains him to speak to her -- he’s convinced he’ll burst into flames if he opens his mouth. “Oh, stop, I -- you’re making me blush.”

“Am I?” she says airily, as if the bloom of rose-red burning on his face isn’t glaringly obvious. She is so very close now, he can feel her breath on his neck. “I wonder what else I could make you do.” 

He remembers a moment like this in the Seduction of Count Lucius -- in the later part of the book, the troubled count wanders into the courtyard at night after a nightmare that plagues him, and a mysterious woman appears to soothe his soul. She lures him to a secret sanctuary, hidden beneath the courtyard and makes love to him, pulling him out of the darkness with her kisses and more. Ashe remembers having spent a shameful number of nights massaging himself to that story, how even the brief description of their first embrace was enough to make his blood thunder in his eardrums -- and it all started just like this, the two of them sitting together in a garden, bathed in moonlight, completely lost in each other’s eyes. Ashe doesn’t even think twice. He takes her face in his hands, and slowly, adoringly, kisses her. 

Everything is still. The howl of the midnight wind brushes through their hair, cool against the sweltering heat of their hands and faces. Byleth inhales so deeply that her breasts shove against him -- he can’t believe how warm she is. She parts her lips slightly, enveloping his bottom lip in hers and he doesn’t understand how, but his heart is beating faster and slower at the same time and it’s making him dizzy enough to faint. She rests her hand right over it, her touch sending a shock shooting up his spine. 

“You’re getting so excited,” she says, bemused, smiling against his mouth. 

“T-Teasing me again?” he stutters, feeling weak in the knees. Her fingers play with the clasps on his tunic and he helps her open it, allowing her to run her hands along his bare chest. 

“Can you blame me?” she says, almost breathlessly. Her slender fingers trace his lips, and he can’t help but kiss them as they wander. 

“Professor -- Byleth,” he corrects himself, muttering in a voice lower than he’d ever managed. “You can’t possibly understand how badly I…”

“Ashe, you don’t have to hold back,” she tells him, her chest heaving up and down. She starts clawing at him, leaning in to press wet, open kisses along his neck. He hisses through his teeth, feeling his pulse drumming between her teeth. She’s biting him -- and it feels _good_. She’s a little rough, but he thinks he likes it. He thinks of the marks she’ll leave behind and it makes his heart beat even faster, impossibly so. He moans into her ear. He would let her devour him if she so wished to. 

“Byleth,” he strains, and she pulls herself up to look at him. “Please, may I -- may I touch you? I’ve never done this before, so I can’t promise I’ll be very good, but I -- "

“Ashe,” she croaks out a hoarse laugh, shaking her head. Her throat bobs with a hard swallow that he can hear. “I want _desperately_ for you to touch me.” 

Byleth shifts around, starts to pull her shorts down, but Ashe’s hands fly to her hips. 

“N-No, please, allow me the honor,” he begs her, and she nods, delightedly. He hooks his fingers under the fabric, and slowly pulls them down her thighs. He notices the dark spot on her panties where wetness has already started to soak through -- his mouth waters. He aches to taste her, but he will put his deft fingers to use first. 

With little hesitation, Ashe strokes her through the silk, brushing over her folds with his eyes locked on hers, waiting to see her reaction with bated breath. She has none, of course -- and it’s just like her. Stony faced, not a twitch or spasm in the muscles of her jaw -- oh, but her eyes. Ashe could drown himself in their sparkling expanse, glorious green like the most precious of stones. 

“Ashe,” she breathes, lifting her hips. He grins at her, rubbing at her mound with pressure.

“My turn to do the teasing,” he purrs, his own voice sounding foreign to him. He can’t decide if he feels filthy or powerful, but Byleth seems to like it from the jolt of her hips beneath him. 

“Fair enough,” she agrees with a soft laugh. Ashe kisses her gently, and pulls her back to lean against his chest so she can sit in his lap. He can’t see her face like this, but it’s not in her face that he’ll feel her emotions -- he doesn’t mind this position. Better for his hands to do their best work. He strokes her again, feeling her shudder through a shaky breath. 

“You’re soaked already,” he grouses, his lips brushing over the shell of her ear. “All because of me?”

His name is all she says, barely a whisper. She grinds into his hand and he figures he can stop playing with her. With slow, deliberate strokes, he slips past the soft fabric of her underwear and massages her bare clit with just the pad of his middle finger. She’s melting around him and he moans louder than she does at the contact. The musk of her arousal is bittersweet and heady, so pungent he can guess the taste just from an intake of breath. He brushes along her clit with his middle and index, writing a “z” shape and applying heavier pressure. He doesn’t move too fast, but she jerks her hips forward.

“You feel so good, Ashe,” she praises him, and knots tighten in his throat. He presses a kiss to the top of her head and sinks two fingers inside of her, her satisfied sigh sending a thrill through him. Steadily, he works his index and middle in and out of her walls, mindful of his palm applying pressure to her clit. Her wetness is burning hot, the slick sounds of her dripping juices stirring something feral inside of him. Ashe quickens his pace, pumping his fingers faster, enough to make her buck into his hand. 

Byleth arches her back, craning her neck to beg for a kiss with desperate panting and Ashe obliges her with a feverish yearning. They kiss sloppily, tongues sliding over one another as he conducts his expert fingers, alternating between drawing shapes on her clit and driving himself in and out of her. He curls his fingers inside of her -- three of them, now -- the heel of palm pressed against her bundle of nerves at just the right angle. Byleth makes the most heavenly aah, aah, and he feels his anxiety and excitement spike -- she must be close to her undoing. 

“Are you going to -- finish? Should I keep doing this?” he asks her in earnest, trying to hear himself speak over the loud pounding of his heart. “Tell me you want it, you want it just like that, don’t you -- "

“Ashe, Ashe,” she whimpers, shuddering in his grasp. He clutches her chest with his free hand, working his other in and out of her, in and out -- she’s ludicrously wet, surely leaving a puddle behind whenever they get off this bench -- 

“Byleth, you’re so warm, so warm inside,” he says, barely forming coherent thoughts at this point. 

“Do you want more of that warmth?” she rasps, reaching back to grab his hair. He grits his teeth, feeling a twitch in his pants at her suggestion. He’s already rock-hard against her back. 

“Do you mean -- "

“Let me sit on you,” she offers, already moving to get up and situate herself anew. Ashe gulps, leaning back against the bench. Byleth climbs on top of him, knees tucked in on either side of his hips. He’s still covered, but she would amend that quickly, unfastening his pants and tugging on them. He struggles to reveal himself to her, blushing madly under her fascinated stare. She says nothing about his size -- no over-saturated pickup line like the sultry courtesans in the books say when a cock is uncovered for them. The hungry fire in her eyes and the way she bites her lip is far, far more intoxicating than that. She touches the leaking head of his cock and he moans. 

“Byleth,” he whines like a wounded dog, eyes glassy and almost tearful. “Please, I -- I want to be buried deep within you. I want to feel you seized around me.” 

A brilliant shade of magenta blooms in her cheeks as she lets her mouth fall open. Byleth nods, keeping her eyes on him as she settles down onto his cock, her walls swallowing the length of him. 

Ashe’s eyes fall shut and stars explode behind them. The tightness of her walls, the thrill of the push inside of her -- the way her warmth seems to envelope not just his core, but the whole of his body -- all the pages he’d read describing such moments as these pale in comparison to the real feeling. His hands find her waist and clings to her for dear life. He feels so clumsy suddenly, so vulnerable beneath her -- if she were to break him, he finds that he would welcome it. He would let her swallow him whole.

Byleth is rocking her hips, clutching his biceps -- he remembers the times she’d told him how much she likes his arms. He hugs her to him, chest slick with sweat. He claws at her shirt, miraculously still on her back -- not for long. He kisses her messily, pulling at the knit until she breaks away from him, pausing the swivel of her hips so that he may pull it over her head. Ashe swallows -- of course she’s wearing nothing underneath. 

“Do you like what you see?” she doesn’t smile, but she says it playfully. 

“You’re the prettiest sight I’ve ever seen,” he sighs, adoring her. She leans in to kiss him before moving on top of him again, and he reaches to play with her clit. Byleth breaks the kiss, tossing her head back as she rides him faster, her walls seizing around him. Ashe feels himself twitch inside her, pressing his thumb hard against her center. She digs her nails into his shoulders, shuddering like she’s going to stop -- 

“D-Don’t stop,” he pleads with her, his sweaty brow furrowed -- she huffs out a confident laugh. 

“Keep those thieving fingers at work, and you’ll have nothing to worry about,” she smirks the tiniest smirk and his heart almost gives out. She grinds into him, his hand and cock so pleasantly pushed into and against her that she almost convulses on top of him -- with a harsh, sharp moan, Byleth reaches her finish -- the tremors of her pulsing orgasm move him into his own right behind her. Ashe feels a white-hot rush as he spills inside her, gripping her waist as though he might fall apart. She crumbles forward, her ragged breathing in his ear and sweaty chest heaving against his bare skin. Ashe kisses her neck, her ears, moving his hand under her to guide himself out of her entrance. They’re both dripping wet in sweat and cum and it’s deliciously filthy.

“I’d been dreaming about those hands,” she confesses, looking sheepish. “You’re better with them than I could have imagined.” 

Ashe bumps his nose against hers, catching himself on a laugh. “Did you doubt me?”

“I’ve seen you open hundred-year-old doors with a twirl of your fingers, of course I didn’t doubt you,” she says straight-faced, but giggles as soon as he does. Ashe kisses her tenderly, with all his heart, cradling her face in his hands.

He thinks of the end of the story of Count Lucius -- he laid entangled with his mysterious maiden for a long night, fell asleep with her under the stars. He’d like nothing more than to do the same with Byleth, but the hardness of the bench has overstayed its welcome, and the chill of the night is less bearable now that the blaze of their lust has been spent. So he pulls his shirt back on over his shoulders, wraps his cloak around her naked breasts, and lifts her up to carry her in his arms back to his quarters.


	3. byleth/ignatz

Ignatz is not a religious man. 

Not really. He is nothing close to a devout believer in the teachings of Seiros -- Merchant families were too busy keeping their children alive to worry about such things as the Commandments or Holy Communion. Ignatz was lucky enough to have learned to read, and that had only been because he wanted to know more stories about her -- the Goddess. Sothis, the mother of Fodlan and creator of humans. He'd loved Her all his life, and while he paid no mind to the guidelines established by the church, he revered and adored the idea of her. Clinging to fairy tales and glorified scriptures, it was through Her image that he found his desire to create, to make tangible the happiness he felt through those stories. She was an idea he held close to his heart, something extremely personal, that he mostly kept to himself. It was because of Her that he started painting, hoping one day, he could inspire that happiness in others.

And then came That Day. The day the Professor tore the sky in half and fell like a star, clawing her way out of darkness with a heavenly glow to her eyes. It was That Day, when he knew -- they said she was blessed, that she’d received a gift from the Goddess herself. A power she was fated to possess took her, shaped her, changed her -- but he knew. She _was_ the Goddess, the very being he’d spent his whole life wishing, hoping, dreaming of seeing -- and she had been guiding him all along. 

So it feels right to be on his knees for her.

“I’ve missed you so much, Professor,” he confesses between her legs. She’s spread herself before him, skirt hiked up around her hips to reveal the heart-stopping sight of her soaked underwear. Ignatz traces his fingers along the outline of her entrance, breath hitching as he notices the eager pulse of her clit. Her thighs are warm and clammy with sweat, a mix of hers and his own, thanks to his nervous palms. He kisses her knees, rubbing her through the silken fabric of her panties. “So, so much…”

His former teacher tosses her head back as her hands find his hair, winding fists in his golden-olive tresses to pull him closer. He chortles softly, licking his lips before pressing a kiss to her center, tasting her wetness through the fabric. He clutches her thighs, blunt fingertips digging into the meat of them. She moans his name eagerly. 

“I thought about you every day,” he murmurs, looking up dolefully at her, watching her chest fall and rise. “I’d hoped with all my heart you would come back to us...I was worried I’d never see you again…”

She tilts her head downward, gazing sorrowfully back at him. Faces of saints and heroes stare back with her, still and quiet. The wavering candlefire seems to make her eyes sparkle. 

“I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, pushing the hair from his eyes. “It wasn’t my choice to leave you…”

“Shh, I know,” he consoles her, bending his head to kiss her entrance again. It makes her hips twitch and he smiles, his heart swelling almost painfully. “I know it wasn’t. I’m sorry. I’m just so happy to see you again, Professor…”

“Byleth,” she corrects him, not unkindly. “Please, call me Byleth.”

Ignatz swallows a chortle, remembering an old conversation he’d had with his house leader. “So Claude was telling the truth -- that _is_ your real name. Byleth…”

He’d never heard a name like that before. He thinks of when Claude had remarked that it didn’t sound Fodlanese -- or much like anything. It’s other-worldly and ethereal, almost dark. It feels forbidden to speak it, like disobeying a Commandment, yet he aches to say it again. Wants to relish the way it feels on his tongue, in his teeth. “Byleth…”

“Ignatz,” she whines, clawing at his scalp, impatient. The musk of her arousal is thick and potent. He thumbs her still-covered entrance, teasing her, feeling the wet pool in the fabric dampen and soak through. She’s panting, tightening her grip on his hair so much it almost hurts. Ignatz fixates on her face, watching for a shift in her blank expression as he slowly, carefully slides his forefinger under her panties, gracing her dripping opening. 

She smiles slightly, sighing in grateful relief as she thrusts forward. Ignatz swallows as he gently pushes inside of her, sharply inhaling as he feels the heat of her walls. She’s impossibly warm, unbelievably slick. His face and neck are burning, blood pumping hard in his ears -- breathing is becoming something of a difficulty the longer he watches her squirm. He curls his fingers in a come-hither motion and Byleth’s jaw falls slack; she moans his name with such fervor he feels his heart could burst.

“P-Please, when you make noises like that, I...I -- "

But Byleth moans for him again. Louder, the sound of his name ringing throughout the chamber. The stony eyes of the onlooking statues seem to bore into him, white glares passing their judgement as he becomes staunchly aware of where he is. Had he been a different breed of believer, he’s sure this would be the point he’d carry her off somewhere else, for fear of being struck by divine punishment for this brand of blasphemy.

But Ignatz is not a religious man. He follows no doctrine nor scripture, fears no rapture. If praising his Goddess with the touch of his mouth is a sin, he decides he’d rather not be forgiven. 

He curls his hands around her hips, beckoning her closer. She edges to the lip of the pew, breath hitching as Ignatz tugs on her underwear. She shifts enough to let him pull them down her thighs, groaning as he kisses the length of her leg as he slides them completely off. Her skin is smooth, soft as silk, peppered with scars and bruises -- stories he hasn’t heard and doesn’t know if he ever will hear. Faded splotches of indigo and violet sit like dried out flowers stuck in yellowed pages. He tries to commit them to memory, hoping to immortalize them on paper later.

Ignatz clutches the sculpts of her calves, swinging her legs around his shoulders. He offers her a pleading look, as if to ask permission, and she nods eagerly, lip caught in her teeth. She tugs on his hair and he buries his face in her cunt, swiping his tongue along her slit experimentally.

She tastes _heavenly_. He can’t help moaning into her, muffled by her folds. Ignatz makes gentle brush strokes against her, painting different shapes as he clutches her hips. She rocks into him, groaning appreciatively and tugging on his hair -- he’s not entirely sure of what he’s doing, but she seems to be finding joy in it, so he keeps going. His glasses are fogging with the heat of her.

He tries flattening his tongue, curling it, sucking at her clit -- earning himself stumbling words of adoration and affirmation. His face burns again, a knot in his throat tightening as he whines. His mouth is full of her, yet he still feels like he’s starving, lapping at her center desperately. Byleth arches her back, clawing at his shoulders as she thrusts into his face. Her thighs are quivering violently -- he can feel her pulse thrumming against his tongue. She’s so very close to spilling into his mouth, and he wants to drink every drop of her holy water. 

“Ignatz -- "

He almost doesn’t hear her plea. He lifts his head, heaving to catch his breath, dizzy and light-headed. “A-Are you alright? Is this okay?”

“Mmm, more than just okay, you make me feel amazing,” she purrs, batting her lashes at him. He blushes like a kid, stuttering a thank-you. He’s supposed to be praising _her_, how unfair.

“I just want to feel more of you,” she tells him, eyes dark and hazy. A sheen of sweat glistens on her magnificent brow like a halo. She is so, so beautiful, he deserves to be smote just for gazing upon her. He doesn’t feel worthy. 

He tells her as much, brows knit together in a worried frown as he draws himself up to stand before her. “I -- Am I fit for such a thing? Servicing you is one thing, but -- "

Byleth seizes his wrists, rising to meet him with a candid, earnest kiss. She envelopes her lips in his, swiping her tongue across his mouth, licking her own wetness off his skin. He whimpers, panting when she breaks away - his heart starts pounding uncomfortably hard. She grips his open shirt, kissing and sucking at his neck with fervor and he clings to her waist, losing his balance. He feels cocooned in her warmth, almost small in her grasp, like rubble in the sand lost to a crashing ocean wave. She holds him so close, her lips on his jaw, on his neck, all over him. Whispering sweet, hypnotic words. Her hands wander to the front of his pants and he arches into her, cock twitching under her touch.

“You are worth a hundred men and more, Ignatz,” she breathes into his ear and he feels himself melting, blood boiling in his veins. His knees are weak enough to give out entirely. She rubs at his crotch, coaxing his erection to life -- if he can’t get inside her immediately, he might honestly collapse and die. 

“Byleth, would you -- lie down?”

She smiles slightly, arching a brow. “Not so shy now, are you?”

“P-Please, don’t tease me,” he begs of her, hands shaking as he moves to unfasten her blouse. It still doesn’t feel right to do this, but if it’s what she desires, he dare not disobey her wishes. His face burns red, the tips of ears searing hot as he uncovers her breasts, peaks shiver-hard with arousal. Teeth clamped on his lip, he slips the sleeves down, fixated on her as the shirt flutters to the floor. Her half-buttoned skirt follows suit, and he struggles to stay vertical as the bare sight of her glows before him under the stained glass-filtered light of the moon.

Broken fragments of rose and blue paint her skin, highlighting every her curve, every roll of softness. Byleth is marred in places he hadn’t dreamed she would be -- streaks of petal pink from where she’d been scarred and stitched back up again. The longer he looks at her, the more his chest feels constricted, much too tight and too small for his swollen heart. To say that her body is a work of art feels cheap, lowly -- no painting or sculpture could ever give her the due justice. She is truly, the most beautiful thing in the world. He wants to worship her with all of himself. 

He kisses her, cradling her face in his trembling hands as she palms at his crotch again, massaging him. He’s so torn, he wants to cherish, behold her just like this, but the ache in his cock is demanding something be done about it, and fast. From the way she groans into his mouth, he gathers she feels much the same. 

Ignatz eases her on her back, laying her down against the plush of his cloak, fanned out on the pew under her. An expectant, devious grin is plastered to her holy face as she pulls him on top of her. Her hands trail along his arms, caressing his biceps along the way -- he shrinks under her gaze, bashful. She’s entirely naked beneath him, and yet he’s still mostly dressed, but she doesn’t lament it -- on the contrary, she seems to enjoy tugging and grasping at his clothing. She thumbs over the buttons adorning his bishop sleeves, moving up to circle the inside of his wrists as he squares his hips over hers, grinding against her. 

“Ignatz, you’re hard as a rock,” she teases and he sputters, blushing madly.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, embarrassed beyond belief, but she cranes her neck to kiss him.

“Don’t, don’t do that,” she admonishes him, pushing up into him. “I love feeling how badly you want me.” 

“I do,” he mutters, “I do want you, more than anything -- I want to extol your grace, I want to give you my heart, my soul -- "

“You may give me whatever you wish,” she cuts him off with a sudden kiss, messy and quick -- her hands dive into his pants and brush against his leaking cock, slowly pumping it up and down. Ignatz near falls apart on top of her. “But what I really want is just...to feel you inside of me. Please, please Ignatz -- "

With little more grace than a gazelle in a trap, Ignatz stumbles to draw his pants open enough to slide his cock out. Byleth greedily grabs at him, fists caught in his shirt as he slowly pushes himself into her. He hisses through his teeth, eyes watering as she moans at the contact -- the heat of her is intoxicating, all-consuming. She tilts her hips, wrapping her legs about his waist so that he’s hilted just so, so deep within her. Ignatz whines as though wounded, heart seizing as he flattens his palm against her stomach. The muscles there are wound taut as a bowstring -- he feels much the same sensation in his gut. Coiled tighter than a spring, threatening to snap. It’s so hard to hold on when she’s looking at him _like that_, with her eyes sparkling and her pink mouth hanging open. 

Slowly, at an easy pace, Ignatz starts to move. Steady now, he braces himself. Slick with sweat, his abs slide against her stomach and she clenches around him, her nails digging into his shoulders mercilessly. It takes a great deal of his strength to keep from both screaming and finishing too quickly inside of her, but he clings to his remaining semblance of self-control. The cold eyes of Seiros cast upon them is certainly helping with that. He bites back a laugh, surprised at how little he cares about the prospect of defiling the holy sanctuary. There’s no way they’re the first to do so and he’s certain they won’t be the last -- especially not if he has any say. 

The more thought he gives to it, the less he believes this could even be considered sacrilege -- surely no other act is as sanctified as this. Nothing is as pure or as raw in devotion as love-making -- it’s the highest form of worship, to devote your body completely to someone you love. When he moves in her, he feels the holy ghost move with him, and every breath he draws is hosanna. 

Byleth is writhing beneath him. Ignatz hurries his pace, driving himself in and out of her as her cries steadily crescendo. She clutches him closer, her nails painting strokes of red on his rippled back. Harder and harder, he slams into her, glasses askew and shirt clinging on only by the tightly buttoned wraps of his sleeves. He is so, so close to his undoing. He wants to be unmade inside of her, spill his offering within her sacred walls -- 

“Ignatz,” she struggles, bucking into him -- their rhythm is rushed and mismatched, both aching to finish -- her lips are rouged and her eyes are glassy. It makes him ache. “I’m so -- "

“Me too, me too,” he manages, almost hoarse. The cathedral has started spinning, his vision is fading. He can feel his heartbeat in three places at once; his chest, his neck, throbbing inside of her. It’s all so much, he wants to cry or vomit or scream, but he kisses her before he can do any of that. He’s crumbling, falling to pieces before her, shattering like a broken chalice at an altar -- 

Byleth screams when she cums. It’s so loud and piercing that he’s sure all the sleeping children of the Goddess must have heard her. He follows immediately behind, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he too, screams into his climax. He fucks her through it, grinding his hips down as she howls, gasping for breath. Her grip on him stays firm until he feels the muscles in her cunt relax and loosen. Steadily, Ignatz draws himself out of her, a rope of cum still connecting his head to her entrance. He grips the back of the pew for balance, willing his heart to calm as his breathing evens out. Byleth props herself up on her elbows, huffing out a satisfied laugh.

“We’ve gotten your cloak so dirty,” she remarks, apologetic. 

“I’m sure it’s not the only thing,” he tries to joke, but she looks a little uneasy.

“_You_ don’t feel dirty, do you?” 

Ignatz frowns, upset at himself for having worried her. He leans forward, adjusting his glasses before pressing a kiss to the side of her mouth. “If I’m making you happy, I could never.” 

Byleth takes his hand, kissing his palm. He lets a dreamy sigh escape his lips, his satisfaction elevated, relieved. “I’m so glad.” 

He feels a smile stretch across his face as he drinks in her visage, relishing the sight of her flushed face and gooseflesh. He hopes he won’t have long to wait before he can look at her like this again, blossom-pink and panting. He looks at her, pining already, waiting for her to be the one to suggest they gather themselves and return to their quarters, but from her silence he believes she too, wants to make this moment last.


	4. byleth/sylvain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sylvain and byleth hook up in a broom closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VIRGIN SYLVAIN. AWKWARD SYLVAIN. i wanted to emasculate him a little bit and this is what happened.

If Sylvain had to rank his favorite places to hook up in Garreg Mach, the broom closet at the far end of the reception hall would be last on his list, if at all. Sure, it’s a covert little hideout, perfect for sneaking around, right off the staircase to the second floor -- but it’s littered with old cleaning supplies and dustier than some of the bookshelves in the cardinals’ room. The compact space isn’t so much of a bother as the lack of breathable air, but with the new professor’s tongue halfway down his throat, he’s not doing much breathing as it is. 

That’s not much of a bother either, not when she’s This Hot, with tits Like That crushed so pleasantly against his chest. She kisses so fiercely, forcefully like she wants him to remember it -- as if imprinting the picture of her half-naked in his arms is actually going to be difficult, ha. The longer their tongues are entangled, the less he minds the damp of the wall behind him. He can tune out the obnoxious creaking in the wooden floor the harder she tugs on his hair. 

“Shoulda figured you’d be the type who likes it a little rough,” he chortles, murmuring against her mouth. She pulls away just slightly, to look him fully in the face. Her lashes are so long -- her deep eyes almost sort of sparkle. It’s kind of ridiculous. 

“Is that okay?” So courteous. Her fingertips are so warm, buried in the roots of his hair. 

“More than okay,” he encourages her, sliding his hand up along her arm. “You can pull harder if you like.”

She does, and he groans, thrusting his hips forward so hard he almost makes her stumble. She doesn’t, though, just tightens her grip on his tresses as she takes his bottom lip between her teeth and _tugs_. Fuck -- Sylvain feels his dick twitch. His hands drift to the dip of her waist and he pulls her closer, mindful of his rapidly stiffening erection pressing against her bare midriff. The professor sighs, parting her mouth to roll her tongue over his as her other hand pops another button open on his shirt. 

Eagerly, Sylvain shrugs off his jacket, breath hitching as she graces his chest with her nails. Her hands are slender, dainty things, but calloused, and impossibly warm. His skin feels hot wherever she makes contact and it’s maddening. She breathes in harshly through her nostrils, her massive tits heaving up against him, making his heart leap traitorously quickly. He loathes himself for it. Almost loathes her too, for making him melt like any other air-headed schoolboy bitch. From her lack of conversation and the dissonant look on her face, she’s probably not even aware that she’s doing it. Sylvain isn’t sure if that makes it worse. He breathes a laugh, in spite of himself. 

“So, you do this kind of thing often, or -- ?”

Her hands seize his throat and he chokes on the rest of his sentence, a slight panic rising in his chest as she shoots him a Look, indecipherable and foreign. Maybe it’s a trick of the dimness in the closet, but he swears there’s no light in her eyes -- no emotion. No anything, like there’s nothing going on in her head. Fucking weird, he thinks, but she’s way too pretty for him to actually care.

“You talk a lot.” She remarks plainly, her voice monotonous. It doesn’t sound much like a complaint, but the tightness of her grip suggests she’d prefer him to stop. So he does -- not before another chortle escapes his lips. His laughter seems to puzzle her further. Maybe she’s _not_ used to this kind of thing, but her ministrations are too calculated, too good for the case to be otherwise. 

“Sorry, is that a turn-off?” he teases her, and she responds in kind with a squeeze he can’t laugh his way through. She leans in close, brushes her lips softly against his in such a way that makes his eyes flutter shut. With difficulty, he swallows, willing her to kiss him fully again, but she pulls back. He feels her smirking and he wants to be pissed off so badly -- he’s never been the one to be seduced. He’s not sure he likes this, being at someone else’s mercy -- but he likes the idea of stopping even less. Following a lady’s lead isn’t much his style, but another nip at his bottom lip and _ohhh_, actually. Maybe this isn’t so bad. 

Her fingers loosen around his neck. Another bite. Another kiss that sends a tingle shooting right through to his cock. He shivers, feeling more than just a little pathetic as her hands wander down to palm the front of his pants. His cock jumps. She traces the ridge of his erection, pulling at his shirt to lick a stripe along his collarbone before kissing at his neck, open-mouthed and hot. Sylvain’s breath hitches -- his heartbeat thumps hard in his eardrums. Her fingers slide under the sash of his pants and she stops kissing him to give him a pleading look, furrowing her brow expectantly -- Sylvain huffs. Finally, it looks like there’s a soul in there behind those wide tea-saucer eyes, and apprehension just has to be the first emotion she shows him. He fights the urge to scowl. 

“What,” he drawls, slipping a finger under the strap of her brassiere. “Need an invitation?” 

Her face relaxes almost instantly. “Just making sure.”

Sylvain grabs her hips, urging her closer as he crushes his mouth against hers, drawing a moan from her throat. His hands skirt around her hips to grab at her ass as he kisses her twice over, ferocious and demanding. “Does that suffice as a ‘yes’,” he grouses, grinding his crotch forward. She groans, lifting her leg to hook around his hip -- seems it does.

Sylvain grabs her thigh, the ache of his erection throbbing almost painfully as she sucks at his neck again. He rakes his nails up her thigh, drawing her skirt up even more to hasten the friction against the thin fabric of her panties. He catches himself on a chortle -- pride floods back to him upon feeling the damp between her thighs. 

So the blank face is just a cover, then. She must be doing just as much pretending as he is, coming apart only when backed into a (literal) corner. He gets it. This works out nicely, then, make it easier to enjoy himself. Not that he hasn’t been so far, but as a faker, he can feel better about letting himself unravel for another faker. 

She bites hard enough to make him hiss, a sharp, high-pitched moan escaping his throat -- fuck, that’s gonna leave a nice mark. He can’t wait to see it in an hour or two. Sylvain chews on his lip and lets his head loll sideways. If she wants to devour him, he’ll let her -- but not before he takes a piece of her, too. 

With her thigh still in a death grip, Sylvain slips his other hand under the ruffle of her skirt, carefully brushing his middle and ring fingers over her still-covered entrance. He hears her breath catch before she drags her teeth along his neck, shuddering in his tight grasp. She jerks her hips, gasping as he starts to move his fingers in circles. Sylvain smirks.

“You like that, huh?” 

She’s whimpering, clutching his shirt -- he can feel her palms sweating. He pushes a little harder against her clit and she whines. His fingers are getting wet, even just through the fabric. That is _so_ hot.

“You’re _dripping_ wet, Professor,” he murmurs, “Honestly, it’s kinda driving me crazy. You want it pretty badly, don’t you?” 

She nods quickly, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. Whining as she presses kiss after kiss against his burning skin -- it should feel good, but it’s making him more impatient than anything. Rolling his eyes, Sylvain pulls her by the hair -- “Ugh. Okay -- " and presses his wet fingers against her lips.

“ -- you’re not a fan of talking, I get it,” he rasps. He lowers his voice to that hypnotic, bewitching baritone that’s never failed him yet, tightening his grip as he tilts her head up to meet his eyes. “But I’d really like it if you’d use your words for me, Professor. Just this once?”

She wraps her small hand around his wrist. Guiding him lower, she stares at his mouth, skirting him over her chest, down to her thighs. Her fingers interlace with his as she moves them past her flimsy lingerie and Sylvain feels the air freeze in his lungs. “Touch me,” she breathes.

Sylvain gulps -- she’s completely soaked. With ease, he sinks two fingers inside of her, burying them in her heat. She’s so warm. The slick, slopping sounds as he draws his digits in and out of her make his head whirl. He curls his fingers and she arches her back, sighing deeply, satisfied. 

“Fuck,” he grumbles, slowly pumping her -- she slips her hand down to join his, indulging in her own wetness. She plays with his fingers inside herself for a moment, long enough to kiss him messily for a minute or two, before drawing out and shoving her hands in his pants again. She graces the head of his cock and he nearly doubles over.

“Fuck,” he says again, flinching. She starts to stroke him, gently, thumbing over the pearl of precum already blooming at his tip. Sylvain moans, uninhibited. He came into this encounter keen on taking care of her and being done with it, but geez -- using her own juices to slick him up? He’s got to respect her creativity. That’s so incredibly sexy. He can’t just _not_ let her touch him. She removes his hand from between her thighs and takes it in her mouth, sucking on his fingers as she works his dick -- her narrowed eyes are dangerously smug. Sylvain doesn’t think he’s ever felt his heart thump this hard.

“This feels a little unfair,” he japes, his chest swelling on a sharp inhale. 

“How so?” she hums, curling her hands a little tighter around his dick. 

“Don’t you want me to touch you?”

“You will,” she says bluntly, as if it were obvious. Her hands work just a little quicker, jerking him just a little harder -- he’s rock hard in her grasp, aching. The warmth radiating from her palms makes the rest of the closet feel colder. Sylvain grits his teeth, keeping himself fixated on her lips, her neck, the curve of her tits spilling over the lace of her brassiere. He’s going to cum just like this and he’s so mad about it. This is so juvenile, he bemoans --

And then she stops. The pulse in his cock thrums uncomfortably -- the sudden loss of contact sends a shiver right through to his chest. She’s yanking on his pants, pulling them down past his knees -- he hesitates in moving to help her, but she’s already spun around, lifting her skirt up around her waist. She backs up into him, pinning him against the wall with her ass cushioned against his wet dick. His hands move on instinct. Fumbling, he grabs at her hips and she groans, gyrating over his crotch. His cock immediately responds, twitching in a _yes! yes!_ \-- but his heart is throwing itself against his rib-cage like an anxious bird. _No, no, no_ \-- 

“Wait, h-hold...hold on,” he stumbles over his own voice as it cracks. She looks back at him over her shoulder, a curious glint in her eye. She arches a brow.

“Hm? Something the matter?” 

“No,” he lies immediately, his face burning a pepper-red. Honestly, when he’d pulled her into this tiny closet after their little tea party, he hadn’t imagined it going very far -- it never goes this far. Maybe he gets some head, or maybe he’ll work his fingers into a girl until she’s a mess in his hands, but never this far. He had no idea that actual sex could be on the table when he started sucking on her neck. He tries to think of some way to tell her that won’t be completely humiliating, but his pulse is pounding in his ears and he’s aching to be touched and he isn’t sure why exactly it matters, but somehow it does. Like if he doesn’t admit it, he’s doing her a disservice of some kind. It’s common courtesy to tell someone you’re a virgin before you fuck them, right? 

“You’ve never done this before.” Her voice pulls him out of the fog of his thoughts. She guesses infuriatingly accurately -- must be a teacher instinct. Embarrassment makes his ears burn, his blood boil.

“How could you possibly -- "

“You wouldn’t hesitate otherwise.” The professor turns around to face him fully, trailing her fingertips along the broad expanse of his bare chest. He swallows, with difficulty. Words stick to the roof of his mouth as he opens and closes it. Fuming, certain that he’s ruined it for himself, he takes her hand in his, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. He’s not sure why he’s hesitating at all, he does want this, and badly. 

But if he’s being honest with himself, he had imagined quite a different scenario for his first time. A bed, for starters -- or at least somewhere more comfortable than an old utility space at school, for fuck’s sake. The scent of candles and incense surrounding, maybe, and better, more flattering lighting. An open window with a balcony, the sunset or moonlight spilling through half-drawn curtains. Faint orchestral from floors beneath them as a party goes on without them. Ambience! Atmosphere! Something sexier than next to a leaking wash-bin and mold. Who it happened with, well. That never mattered. 

He’d resigned at a young enough age to the fact that he would be wed to someone he didn’t care about. Reality became easier to swallow the older he got, and he decided that as long as she was beautiful and decent at giving head, he didn’t have to care. But the longer he looks into the professor’s pools of ocean-blue eyes, he feels his heart sink lower and lower. He doesn’t know her, but he thinks he cares about her. He almost scoffs out loud -- he feels fucking stupid. He doesn’t even know her name. How could he care? (That’s it though, he thinks. He _could_, in time.) And if he could, shouldn’t he wait until actually he does? Shouldn’t it matter? 

(Should he be worried that it doesn’t?) 

“I’m sorry, I just…” He doesn’t finish. She reaches for his face, cupping his chin. The tips of her nails graze the soft flesh right under his jaw. 

“Tell me whatever you want,” she tells him, hardly in a whisper. “Or don’t want.”

“I want to be inside of you,” he blurts out, swiftly moving his hands to grasp at her breasts. He doesn't have time to care, not if she's going to keep looking at him Like That. She tilts her head back, groaning with her lip between her teeth. “I wanna hear more of those noises you make.” 

Sylvain dips his head down to suck on her neck, his dick stiffening again. Her skin is so hot, so soft. He lets his hands float back down to touch her again, relieved to find that her panties are still drenched. He can smell her musk and it makes his mouth water. “I wanna feel you shiver when you cum for me. You’ll cum for me, won’t you, professor?”

She pries him off her throat to turn around, twirling her hips back into him as she moves her skirt up again. Looking back over her shoulder, she holds his gaze, licking her lips deliberately slowly. Oh, fuck. She’s so, so hot, it’s stupid. Stupid! And he’s about to be inside of her. Fuck. “You’re gonna have to make me.” 

A very brief, flickering thought of how-am-I-going-to-do-this crosses his quickly melting mind. Sylvain swallows, reaching to grab the band of her brassiere to steady himself. She’s standing on the tips of her toes, but she’s still just slightly too short to be comfortably aligned to his hips, so he kicks over a ratchety stepping stool and wordlessly, she steps onto it. He squares her hips over his and thinks nice, this will do nicely. She rocks back into him, reaching around for his hand and he lets her take it, guiding him back to her cunt. He leans over, fingering her harder than before, using three of his fingers this time. Her knees buckle. Sylvain feels his cock respond in kind, blood pulsing hard as he presses it against her. 

He moves down to push her panties aside and she whimpers a little. He could pull them off, but something about leaving them on makes him shiver, the sense of urgency almost intoxicating. If her breathy giggles are any indication, she seems to like it too. He takes hold of his cock in the hand that isn’t working her clit, his heart hammering eagerly. So this is it, huh? He’s really going to just fuck his professor in this broom closet? 

“Are you ready for me?” He could laugh at himself. What a foolish question, of course she’s ready, her thighs are coated in her juices, dumbass -- but she turns her head to smile just the faintest smile back at him. Encouraging. She appreciates that he asked. 

“Please, give it to me,” she asks in turn, her voice grovelling. Goddess. She’s so hot he can’t even think straight. 

“Okay,” he breathes, staggering. He feels around her slippery wetness, hoping his fingers are enough to guide him in. The tip of his head nudges somewhere he doesn’t believe is quite right, and she makes some sort of stuttering noise that proves it. He fumbles, feeling like his face is on fire as he struggles for another twenty seconds trying to find her entrance. He trusts his fingers again, and this time she moans appreciatively -- the head of his cock slips inside her cunt with ease, and Sylvain feels himself swelling within her walls almost immediately. 

He fixates on the sight of himself sinking deep into her, completely entranced. She groans a primal, guttural noise that makes his stomach tighten and coil into knots. Slowly, he draws himself out, not entirely, just enough to marvel at the image of his cock disappearing into her again. He does this three or four times over, until she clears her throat a little obnoxiously.

“Sylvain, please, if you could…”

Shit, right. He should be doing more moving. This is supposed to be faster, isn’t it? He holds onto her hips, thrusting forward at a steady pace. He feels her clenching her walls around him, squeezing his dick with her muscles and he almost chokes. Fuck, that feels so incredibly good, it hardly makes any sense. He can’t believe this is a real sensation he’s feeling. It’s so warm, so tight -- he wants to live with his cock buried inside her. 

The professor starts panting, gripping the decrepit shelves for balance as he gains enough confidence to pick up his pace. He moves one hand to grab at her bra again, clutching it like reigns on a horse and fuck, that’s an awful thing to think, but fuck! That feels good. He bucks harder into her and she groans, half-laughing -- it makes his chest swell with pride. She’s really enjoying herself. He loves that almost as much as he loves getting off.

“Yes, yes, Sylvain, _yes_,” she commends him, gasping a stoccato of sharp breaths. He thrusts into her with hard snaps of his hips, his heart pounding in tandem. He’s almost afraid it could burst. Sweat is dripping into his eyes. The whole room feels much too hot now, like he can’t breathe -- is he going to cum? Is _she_ going to cum? He doesn’t want to cum first, that would be terrible form -- 

“I’m going to -- Sylvain, I’m so close -- "

Okay, she is going to cum, thank the Goddess -- it would be absolutely boorish of him to finish before her, the one thing he’d been afraid of -- she can’t think he’s a bastard. 

( -- okay, she can think he’s a bastard, because he totally is, but not because of that.) 

He’s not sure what he should do now -- if she’s close, he should just keep doing what he’s doing, right? Don’t stop? Does she need more? Should he slow down? He moves his hand to press on her clit -- multi-tasking throws off his rhythm a little bit, but she seems to welcome the gesture. He bites on the back of her shoulders, nosing her sweaty hair and kissing the back of her neck. She’s feverishly warm and slick with sweat. 

“Yes, _yes_, oh, Sylvain, _Sylvain_ \-- "

He hisses through his teeth, sucking on her neck from behind -- his name sounds so good on her tongue, through the strained rasps of her voice. He cannot believe this is happening right now. She’s so hot. Goddess, she’s _so hot_ \-- 

“I’m gonna -- I’m -- "

She twitches in his grasp. With his fingers still working her clit, he can feel an erratic pulse evolve into a full-body shudder -- oh, fuck. She _is_ cumming. She’s cumming. All over his hand and his dick. She’s trembling. Sylvain is throbbing inside of her and she’s squeezing around him again. Fuck, that feels fucking good. He’s gonna --

“I’m gonna cum,” he manages to warn her before he spills himself inside of her. She moans, shaking through heaving breaths as she takes it, finishing with him. He rides her until his legs feel like pasta, ready to collapse under his weight. His heart stops and then starts again, a heavy drumbeat against his ribs as the professor eases herself off of him, his cum dripping from between her legs. She sighs, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. 

“Fuck,” she sighs, pink in the face. Her eyes are dancing with light. He can’t help but smile.

“Fuck,” he mimics her, pulling his trousers back up. 

“That was fun,” she says brightly, beaming at him. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, the straps of her bra slipping off her shoulders. It’s barely covering her anymore -- he can see the peaks of her nipples over the trim of lace. There’s little splotches of blue and purple along her neck, and small imprints of where his fingers where grabbing her hips. Fuck, that’s sexy. 

“Yeah, really fun,” he hears himself say. He’s so tired his voice barely sounds like his own. His head is still spinning so fast. “So did I pass the test?” he teases, winking at her as he half-buttons his shirt back on. She gives him a cool once-over, like she’s actually giving it some thought.

“You thought I was testing you?”

Sylvain sighs, creasing his brow. “No, I just. It was a -- joke. I was making a joke.”

She tilts her head, puzzled at him -- the light in her eyes has gone again, and she’s reverted back to her expressionless stare as she pulls her jacket on. 

“You know, ‘cause you’re a...teacher...I’m in your class...okay, so it wasn’t that funny, was it?” 

She reaches for his hand, giving it a light squeeze as she leans in to kiss him once more. She smells like his musk and it makes him smile against her lips. 

“See you in class tomorrow.”

She slips her shoes back on and makes a gracefully quick exit from their hiding spot, leaving him clutching his uniform. Sylvain leans back against the stone and brick, heaving a sigh. He’ll see her tomorrow. He grins a little. Tomorrow -- and the day after that, and the day after that. That’s exciting. 

Maybe she’ll pull him into her quarters next time.


	5. byleth/sylvain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sylvain can't swim. byleth eases him into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a commission for a dear friend c: happy summer to sylvain and his baja blast

“You don’t know how to swim, do you?”

His face gives it away. He’s still got his sunglasses on, but she can see the way his brows fly up to his hairline. His cheeks are scarlet. He takes a slow sip of his cooler, nosing the tiny umbrella and shifting on the lounge chair. She figured he’d at least be toeing the shoreline, chatting up the scantily clad hopefuls who tagged along for the trip, but instead he sought umbrage near the cliff the moment they’d arrived and hadn’t budged since. Byleth narrows a curious eye at him.

“Whatever would give you that idea?” he laughs into his goblet, blowing bubbles into the fizzy drink. He keeps his voice even, but he won’t look right at her. She sighs. 

“Could just be the way you’re avoiding the water, since I know you’d never avoid me.”

This makes him laugh again. “Wow, someone’s cocky.”

She crosses her arms. “Am I wrong?”

His chortles drop off into a groan as he sets his drink down, swinging his legs over the side of the chair. He raises his arms over his head to stretch, cracking his knuckles. Fiddling with his long limbs. A nervous habit she’s picked up on. He scratches the back of his neck, frowning. He doesn’t like it when she watches him, she’s learned, but instead of his walls going up, he lets them come down a bit -- in his own little way. 

He makes this face, this pitiful, doleful face. Vulnerable. It always gets to her. He glances toward the shore. “It just -- it looks really deep.” 

“It isn’t if you tread carefully,” she says, reassuring. She strides a little closer to him, an arm outstretched. “I can show you.”

It’s only for a moment that he hesitates. He’s started to reach for her hand like a reflex, more easily consoled by her more innocent touches. He chews the inner of his cheek, eyes wide in worry behind the tinted glass of his sun-shades. Byleth laces her fingers in the spaces between his, giving his palm a squeeze.

“I won’t let go, I promise,” she says. Sylvain chortles awkwardly. 

The two of them tread barefooted across the hot sand toward the space where the sea-foam crashes and washes up shells. They take turns laughing at the way the other hops and skips, the burn of the sun-blazed sand only a minor deterrent from their enjoyment of just being together. They quiet once they reach the water, and Byleth leads him along the edge of the ocean until she spots a cleaner, calmer path to ease him in. Pulling him closer, she steps gracefully into the sea, Sylvain not a foot behind, grasping tightly at her hand.

He lifts his shade to sit atop his crown, squinting in the glaring sunlight. 

“Wow,” he says, almost breathlessly. He shuffles his feet, barely knee-deep in, kelp and seaweed floating around his ankles. 

Byleth smiles, stroking the length of his arm with the back of her hand. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s like bathwater,” Sylvain marvels at the sapphire-blue waters. “So warm.” 

“Do you want to try going a little further?”

He looks hesitant, but also curious, arching a brow as he shrugs. “Er -- yeah, why not?”

She leads him further in, where she starts to feel the gentle push of the waves. There’s a divot in the sand beneath their feet to drop off into deeper water, and she warns him before bobbing under. He makes a little sputter of a noise, but she comes back up quickly, her whole head wet and the hibiscus flower wilted in her hair. 

“Is this alright?” she asks him. The waterline reaches her neck now, but he’s still got the whole of his chest above it.

“Yeah,” he says with little conviction, reaching to hold onto her. She smiles, encouraging, cozy into him as he latches onto her waist. He looks curiously down at her face.

“Say, Professor,” he starts, a familiar sparkle in the dark of his eyes, “what if we uh…” 

Byleth blinks. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth and her hands find his neck on instinct -- sometimes all it takes is a look. With a crane of his neck, he bends his head so their lips can meet, and the pushing water paired with his kiss is enough to make her sway. 

She can taste salt on his tongue. She’s losing the fight to keep her balance, but Sylvain moves to catch her, lifting her to hold tight against him. She feels almost weightless, carried by the sea but anchored in his arms. 

She wraps her legs around his hips, arms encircled about his neck. Water rushes and sloshes in the small spaces left between their bodies, but Sylvain hardly complains. He buries his face in her chest, mouthing at her breasts, tasting all the salt of her sweat and the ocean water. His touch is warm, a different kind of wet. It makes her melt between her thighs. She can feel him pressed hard against her.

“Sylvain…” 

He lifts his head, looking up at her in that lazy-sexy way. “Hey.” 

He’s already half-hard, straining against the confines of his shorts. It seems he remembers they’re in water and he can let her go just a little, and she won’t fall. One of his hands trail south, the other clinging to her back as he fumbles with the band of his shorts. He grimaces, feeling the new sensation of seawater against his cock, making quick work of her swimsuit bottoms. His fingers dance around her entrance, and he gazes hungrily back up at her, anticipating.

“Was this your plan all along?” 

Byleth smiles, a tiny, funny one. “It wasn’t, but if it makes you more comfortable in the water…”

Sylvain’s chortles are stifled with her mouth. Messy, horny kisses shoot a shock to her core, and she feels herself melting on his fingers, the ribbons holding her swimsuit together falling around her right hip. The waves are rising just a little higher, and she worries for him, but he seems to mind the rocking sensations less and less the harder he focuses on getting her cunt soaked. He makes the switch between touching her and touching himself, and once he’s flushed, he asks if she thinks this is actually a good idea. 

It probably isn’t, seeing as if an eel or a long piece of seaweed tickles his legs, it’s over -- but the push of the waves and the warmth of the water and the pulse of his cock between her legs is too good. It’s only them and the sun and the ocean, alone without a care, for once. She presses her lips to his and he maneuvers himself inside of her, groaning. 

Water is not the best lubricant. She figured as much, but to actually feel it in practice is humbling. She winces, straining, and his muscles tighten -- it’s a harsh, pricking sting at first, just uncomfortable enough to make her whine. She clenches around him and he groans into a chuckle, holding her close. She tries to relax, let her legs hang around his back and allow him to take control, and he does. With careful, easy thrusts, he leans her back just a little -- her face goes under just a bit, and he laughs again, but that’s okay -- it’s refreshing -- and he finds a pace he likes. He almost keeps timing with the waves. It’s a little too steady and slow, but the water doesn’t make for quick movement either, and he looks riled enough to be close to climaxing anyway. She smiles to herself, glad to make him so happy. 

“I’m -- I think I could cum soon,” he tells her, voice drowning out by the sounds of the sea. Byleth squeezes around his dick, her walls flexing. She’s sweating. She tries to straighten up, holds him closer. It’s an awkward position -- up against the wall with no wall. He’s already slipped out once, but she wants to bring him to finish. The water feels almost too warm now. He looks a little dizzy. 

“Cum for me, Sylvain,” she tells him, holding him to her chest. He mouths at her breasts again, the whole of his body tightening into a coil against her. She clenches again, feeling him throb -- he makes the sweetest little whine when he finishes. 

Byleth kisses him, the warmth of his cum flooding the space between her legs. He doesn’t put her down, instead holds her closer, his heartbeat drumming against her simmering skin. She tangles her fingers in his soppy mess of hair. 

With a kiss to her neck, he asks her, breathlessly, “So, how’s that for my first swimming lesson?”

Byleth sighs.


End file.
